the first time I made mincemeat of the standard propositions establishing a so-called moral science

[bouchonne]

WHO: Byerly Rutyer and Wysteria Poppell
WHAT: She's stuck with him for 3 hours
WHEN: Whenever
WHERE: On the road
NOTES: He's a smutmonger??

[ It's not a terrible trip from Kirkwall to Greencliff. Thirty miles along the coast, and a journey decently worth taking: Greencliff is a striking city, with a high copper content in the mineral cliffs giving them a curious greenish tint. Not particularly built-up, not a center of commerce or of war, but quite nice nevertheless. There are a multiple trips by commercial carriage out there per day. So, logically, the odds of running into someone you don't want to run into are relatively small.

Thank the Maker Wysteria isn't a betting woman, because it's clear enough her luck today is rotten.

Because not only does she end up in a carriage with Byerly, Byerly was running late. So that means that it's when she's well and truly settled, and when the wagon is but a few breaths from departing, that he scrambles in. The door closes behind him as he pants, clearly come off a sprint for it; the driver gives a cry; the horses lurch into motion; there's no time for her to escape.

Perhaps a stroke of good luck for the girl, though. By, for once, is so genuinely overcome with the aftereffects of drink that he doesn't even take the time to investigate his surroundings. Instead, he flops over the bench, and throws his arm across his eyes, and groans, all without ever having seen her. ]

Comments

[heirring]

[You imbecile, she thinks.

In a more confident and therefore infinitely less convincing coquettish falsetto:]

How shocking!

[bouchonne]

Isn't it just. Do you want to know the prophecy that came to me, in that lyrium-brightness?

[heirring]

[What's the likelihood that he'll say it whether she cares to hear it or not? She's on the very verge of saying something just slightly more argumentative when the carriage jostles and she has to brace herself with one hand against the wall, doing a magnificent job of keeping the heavy book high in front of her face with just the one hand. Flustered:]

Oh, please. I'm ever so interested.

[bouchonne]

[ And he rolls his eyes towards the roof of the carriage and says, meditatively: ]

That on this day, I would come across a prevaricator.

[heirring]

[The book wobbles.]

Well-- is that really much of a prophecy? I imagine you meet that sort of person often in the day to day. [She plants her foot decisively against the next few bumps of the carriage. Ha ha! See her outfoxed now, you lumpy old road you.]

[bouchonne]

[ He narrows his eyes just a touch and lets out a long breath through his nose. Oh, he does detest this carriage. Every jolt makes his head throb a little worse. And he might actually vomit on her delicate little feet. ]

Do you come across many liars?

[heirring]

I imagine everyone does, don't they? Only you don't realize it of course.

[She's getting the hang of this voice, she thinks. And the balancing act as well. Certainly she can't sustain this for the entire length of the trip, but maybe if she's very thoughtful she can find a reason to next cover her face with her traveling cloak - beg needing a nap, maybe? Though it's dark already in the carriage, which really somewhat negates the need to cover her face or head-- Still, people can be funny and particular, can't they? Surely it's no more unreasonable than Byerly snapping the curtain shut in the first place.]

[bouchonne]

I don't believe that I do. Come across many. I've been blessed with only the most trustworthy and decent people in my life.

[ He smiles sweetly at her. ]

[heirring]

Oh. [What a pile of absolute horse shit.] How fortunate you are, sir. Present condition excepting, of course.

[She's shifting the book around in her hands now, trying to find a way to hold it so as to rest this or that arm. And-- Oh damn. She quickly turns a page. Damn, damn, damn; she should have been turning pages this whole time. Wysteria spits the first thing to mind as a distraction:]

Are you traveling far, lucky sir?

[bouchonne]

[ He turns a laugh at her sudden motion into a cough, hiding his grin behind his fist. He should have said he'd be meeting a very bad prevaricator. ]

To Greencliff. And you, madame?

[heirring]

[A long pause follows in which Wysteria desperately tries to remember what lies still farther East of Greencliff that the road might conceivably lead to, that the carriage might possibly travel to once it'd reached its first stop. She awkwardly fills the blank pause by turning the page again.]

T-To Greencliff?

[There that silly voice peaks sharper.]

[bouchonne]

Ah!

[ When he drops his fist, his smile is delighted. ]

What a marvel. I can be your chaperon.

[heirring]

No! [It's a sharp squawking noise. Wysteria quickly tempers it, flipping yet another page.] No, that's quite all right. I'm-- I'm meeting a friend actually. An old one whom I love very dearly. So your attention is quite unnecessary.

[Gods, this really is interminable isn't it? And her fingers are beginning to go slightly numb-- she chances shifting the book just enough to peer slightly about the side of it. And whips it back in place just as quickly, flushing hot and sharp at the sight of even the corner of his smile. He's meant to have his eyes closed, she thinks with all the vicious spite in her entire body.

For a moment more she stares at the open book, calculating ten different options at once and ultimately finding the conclusions of absolutely none of them. Wysteria at last snaps the book closed and feigns shock at the sight of him.]

Oh! Mr Rutyer. I had no idea. What an incredible coincidence that we should both find ourselves on the way to Greencliff. My goodness.

[bouchonne]

Wysteria Poppell?

[ He stares at her, mouth open, eyes wide. And then, with a gasp - ]

Meeting an old friend...It was you! You're the prevaricator!

[heirring]

I-- what? [A gasp, appalled.] Not at all, Mr Rutyer!

[She is satisfied to note that at least he looks an absolute wreck. There might not be much to be pleased about over the sight of him in such close proximity, but that at least is heartening.]

Oh, but I can see where the misunderstanding lays of course. I'm afraid we have an altogether different sense of the word old, you see. I naturally meant my oldest friend out of all the ones I have here. [She smiles with all of her teeth.] Obviously.

[bouchonne]

I see.

[ He smiles back at her, perfectly pleasant and warm, with precisely the right number of teeth. ]

And who would that be?

[heirring]

[There's a smarter line she might take for this - 'Oh, Mr Rutyer, I can't imagine you'd know her. Not that she isn't a lovely young woman you'd be better for knowing, of course, only that she's very recent to the city as well and surely you can't know every fresh face.' But what springs most immediately, most instantly to mind is:]

Lady Alexandrie de la Fontaine.

[bouchonne]

[ That actually lifts an eyebrow - just a twitch - because if there's a worse lie to settle on, he genuinely can't think of one. If Alexandrie had gone traveling, the castle would have learned that she was going to do so at least a week before she set out, and there'd be trumpeters heralding her departure. Never mind her sometime-lover learning of this planned journey. Honestly, he almost wants to sit little Wysteria down in a schoolroom and teach her how to tell a lie. ]

I see. [ He touches his lip. ] So you consider the Lady de la Fontaine to be old?

[heirring]

[Were she not so hip deep in her own fiction, she might have the wherewithal to summon a clever retort. As it is, Wysteria briefly blusters over the implication. She turns the book about in her lap.]

Not at all. She's a very young, pretty thing. Only just slightly older than myself if I were to guess, but of course I wouldn't. She's merely my oldest and truest friend here. Which is, I admit, something of a sliding scale given the context of the length of time I've been here, but I really must insist on its honesty. Honestly, Mister Rutyer, you have such a way of insisting on the worst in people.

[bouchonne]

[ He presses a hand to his chest - ]

And they so rarely deny me.

[ Then, with a smile - ]

Alexandrie de la Fontaine is one of my oldest friends, as well. She was my hostess, patroness, and bosom companion when I found myself penniless in Orlais as a young man. As she would be furious if I did not say hello to her, I shall accompany you to give her my regards.

[ Then, pensively - ]

And, given that I bid her adieu this morning before I boarded the carriage, I shall inquire what magic she has access to, that she could precede us here.

[heirring]

[For a split second, Wysteria simply looks straight back at him as if she hasn't quite heard him over the squeak and rattle of the carriage. She has gone very still (as much as is possible given the sway of their shared accomodation), but her expression - a certain overzealous attempt at easy, cheerful condescenion - remains there, perfectly poised for all of a breath. Then it begins to melt, evoking all the fundamentally tragic sweetness of a candy left in the sun.]

Oh.

[Speaking of magic: running in circles around her may not be at all noteworthy, but catching her in even the briefest moment of silence must count Byerly among the ranks of the most talented magicians. After a long pause, she limply offers:]

Maybe she forgot.

[bouchonne]

[ He doesn't even bother to hide his grin at her. And he answers, cheerfully: ]

Then poor Miss Poppell! Abandoned and alone. No wonder you look so distraught.

[ Then, shaking his head, that grin still in place - ]

You know, my sweet girl, lying is a skill like any other. You didn't expect to be a master embroiderer the first time you took up a needle, did you? So why do you think you can outfox a liar like me?

[heirring]

I'll have you know I'm reprehensively terrible at embroidery as well.

[Distraught looking indeed. She's slouched backward into the questionable comfort of the cushion on her side of the carriage and tossed the book in moody surrender from her lap to beside her on the bench. What a disaster; now on top of everything else, she'll be forced to suffer through his good mood. At least before he'd been pleasantly miserable.]

I really don't know why everyone seems to think the opposite. Next someone will ask me to play something on a harp, or recite my favorite poem, or expect me to be appalled by wear on my gloves. [Well, that last one might actually be something she'd do - but only on account of the fact that she is saving for a new dress that isn't half to hideous and would rather not be set back by the cost of new gloves. She fixes him with a look that might be frank were it not so patently impatient.] It's dreadful, you know. To be thought of as even more silly than you are.

[Sweet girl. How awful.]

[bouchonne]

Is it?

[ His expression turns somewhat less obnoxious, fading from smug grin to smug smile. He props his shoulder against the carriage behind him, and arches an eyebrow, and stretches his legs out in front of him. ]

I know of circumstances where it's quite wonderful to be thought silly.

[heirring]

[She jams her shoe against his. Don't think she's going to let you sprawl out and hog all the leg room, Byerly.]

Of course you would think that. You're allowed to be a complete disaster. But I have you know I've worked very hard to be taken seriously and I don't appreciate suddenly being seen as even more ridiculous than usual.